


In the End (will I find an ending with you?)

by HarteHealer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and More Angst, Did I mention angst, Drama, Drug Use, F/F, Heavy Angst, Heavy Metal, Kidnapping, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Snakes, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, vinyl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarteHealer/pseuds/HarteHealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music moves the soul. And music saves lives. It moves Clarke. It saved Lexa. Now music draws them together, but when the past reveals that they aren't new to one another and secrets rise from the ashes, music may not help them rebuild each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though they're in the tags, I want to inform readers that there is alcoholism, PTSD, and unhealthy coping mechanisms heavily shown in the entirety of this fic. As well as flashbacks to very emotionally traumatic things. Caution advised.
> 
> I started this in December after I finished s2. Music inspired it and I hope you appreciate what I have to share. x

Yet another order comes through wrong and Lexa doesn’t think she has the patience or the coffee supply to handle the bigotry and backhanded insults being flung at her over the phone. So many distributing companies only veneered themselves with claims that they respect the value of physical albums. In reality, they only pander to the top tier businesses that invest in more than just CDs and vinyl. The digital age shops that have no physical storefront to maintain. And worse yet, they are all men with music tastes as narrow and short as their pricks.

“You are missing the point!” Lexa snaps. It’s already more than an hour into the conversation--argument really--and she’s incapable of restraining her ire. “The money was paid for the order and the packaging slip state all vinyls are accounted for but the inventory doesn’t match up. Which means you need to send me the missing items free of charge.”

The man on the other end of the line sniffs so loudly into his receiver that the woman can nearly smell the condescension where she sits in her closet-sized office. “Ma’am, the items you claim aren’t there were accounted for when packaged and shipped. If you want to place another order, I’m happy to connect you with our--”

“No. You know what? I’m sick of this bullshit. I’ll call back when you aren’t working so I can get someone reasonable to speak with.” The corded phone of her business landline clatters back on the base and Lexa jerks to her feet as she rubs her hands down her face. She needs a smoke. Or five. She’ll decide that when she gets out of her hellhole office.

Striding out into the narrow hall at the back of the shop, the brunette enters the main floor with narrowed eyes and her pack of Marlboro Red Label held in one hand, the vintage lighter in her other. Out of the corner of her eye she notices a blonde head rummaging through records but her gaze only holds steady on the woman behind the register.

The dark gaze takes one look at her boss and shakes her head. “Those pricks aren’t going to do us any favours.”

“Fat chance.” Lexa leaves it at that as she shoves the shop door open, jaw clenching hard enough for her molars to grind in her ears at the sound of the guitar riffs that strum out to announce her departure. She hears her own voice in her head the day she had it installed: Door chimes are too dull for this establishment. Right now, that cheeky idea feels like the worst investment she ever made.

Combat boots clomp on cement as the sole proprietor of Polis Vinyl turns into the alley beside her painstakingly earned shop and throws herself bodily against the brick siding. Her thoughts burn trails through her brain, envisioning what sort of revenge she could take on the companies shortchanging her. All the while her fingers go through the ingrained motor memory of drawing out a cigarette, settling it against her lips and lighting it up. It’s only after four deep inhales and heavy exhales of smoke later that Lexa feels some of the fury inside her dull from a roar to a growl.

Indra continues to tell her that her smoking habit would lead her to an early grave. That the cost of her addiction to booze and cigs would do the business in long before the musicians gave up on producing physical copies of their albums. Lexa claims the cigarettes lead her to her decision. Kept her up at night so she could discover the necessity of opening her own store. Music is life. And that life is what has kept Lexa alive for twenty four years. So what if a pack of smokes shaves off a bit at the end. She’d be homicidal without smoking. More violent. Trapped in a more vicious cycle she’d promised not to repeat.

It’s as she lights her second smoke right off the first that she hears the shop door open and the guitar riff sounds. The green-eyed owner glances up at the sound of footsteps growing louder and watches as a blonde woman strides past the alley with a bag from Polis clutched to her chest. Lexa stares, wondering why the woman holds so tightly to her purchase, and in her curiosity, fails to look away before the blonde lifts her gaze. Blue eyes meet green and it’s only a moment--the awkward realisation of meeting gazes--but the blonde smiles at her. Lexa only nods her head before turning away.

Why does she smile? A brilliant smile. Bright and open. Sharing. It baffles Lexa. She’s well aware that her outward appearance gives people room to question and fear her. Skin-tight black leather pants with chains hooked through straps at her hips. Combat boots lacing up her calves. A shredded grey band tee laid over a black long-sleeve top. Her eyes rimmed heavily black and lips left pale. Piercings gleaming from several parts of her body, some stretched beyond accepted limits. Yet the blonde smiles at her. A blonde blue-eyed young woman who shared none of the same fashion tastes in her briefly-glimpsed attire.

With a heavy drag on her second cigarette, Lexa stares at the litter-strewn ground. Bet she’s a customer who didn’t get the album she wanted thanks to the fuck up with the latest shipment. Or the one previous to that.

Lexa flicks the butt of the smoke once it’s through and tells herself she still has a business to run. She can’t sustain a third chain smoke. So she kicks at a used can of a redbull as she turns and strides back to her shop with green eyes, blonde hair, and bright smiles wavering between the ire of her recent phone call.

“The girl that was just in here,” Indra intones the moment Lexa steps foot back inside the dimly lit shop, “says she’ll be back later this week. She wants you to give suggestions on some new artists she should listen to.”

Lexa blinks as one of her dark eyebrows arches upward. “What taste?”

“Metal. Looked like the more they screamed, the more she was interested.”

The other brow jumps skyward to meet the other as Lexa blinks again. “Interesting.”

Indra nods as she strides out from behind the counter and heads into the stacks to see if the customer had misarranged the vinyls in that section. Lexa stands there for a moment as she reconciles the bright smile, simple yet well dressed clothing she glimpsed in those brief moments, and then shakes her head. People and their music interests can always surprise. She certainly isn’t one who would judge.

“I’ll be in the back sacrificing a goat to the corporate asswipes who won’t give us what we deserve. Scream if you need me.” Indra never screams. Her voice rarely raises. It’s why Lexa only hired her to work with her. One of the reasons, at least.

Indra doesn’t look up from where her fingers make quick work of alphabetising the vinyl records. “Whatever you say, Commander.”

Lexa gets to the employees only door that leads to the back where the storage, break room, and Lexa’s office are located. Just as her hand lands on the door handle, Indra speaks up once more.

“Lexa, you do remember that you agreed to interview Octavia Blake today, yes?”

The shorter brunette lets her eyes fall closed for a moment without turning around. She’d forgotten. But instead, she answers, “Of course. Three p.m.”

“Yes.”

Green eyes jump to the steampunk face of her watch. It’s already after two in the afternoon. “Then I suppose I’ll save the goat sacrifice until after. Can’t scare this Blake girl off too soon.”

Lexa doesn’t have to look back to her most trusted friend. She feels the eye roll and amused smirk coming from Indra pressing into her shoulderblades. Just like she can feel that she’s going to need another six cups of coffee and perhaps a shot of bourbon to get through the rest of the tasks for the day. This Octavia better turn out to be promising. Indra’s approval means a lot but Lexa doesn’t trust just anyone to work under her authority.

xxxx

“I’m not making you any promises, Olivia.”

“Octavia, ma’am.”

Lexa looks up from the resume. It’s rather sparse but Indra said it would be. A grimace passes over the woman’s expression before she responds, “Octavia. I’ll commit your name to memory if you refrain from ever calling me ma’am again. Deal?”

“Deal.” A hint of an amused grin tugs at one corner of the girl’s lips.

“Like I said. No promises. I’m picky and this isn’t the type of job where you’re going to meet famous musicians or spend time listening to records and tossing back shots after hours. It’s incredibly dull. The biggest busy period comes when you have to do battle with the dust motes and mop the floors.” Lexa leans back with a sigh. “But I understand the sort of position you’re in. Indra helped me so I should be willing to do the same for you.”

The small office lapses into silence as Lexa lets her gaze sweep over the young woman before her. She’s likely a year or two younger than herself. Her skin is on the pale side, but she seems healthy. Strong. Bright eyes looking to prove herself. The slight upward cant to her chin tells Lexa everything she wants to know. Octavia has fought for her identity and will keep doing what it takes to make her way in the world. It’s the same spirit Indra had seen in Lexa and it’s satisfying to see a similar energy in another woman now.

Lexa sets the resume down. “Come back tomorrow to fill out some paperwork.”

The girl jumps to her feet, eyes suffused with the promise of something new but she bites her lip to stop any cheer or wild declaration from breaking free. Lexa appreciates the show of restraint. Instead, the owner is quick to wave her hand toward the door. “Go do something to celebrate. Let Indra know. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

The door falls closed behind her as Lexa turns away from the resume and the thought of having a new employee to train and pay. A new risk right in her domain. A person she doesn’t know how to receive into her carefully-preserved small world. Her fingers seek out the handle of the lowest drawer on her desk, yanking it open to reveal several bottles of liquor. The glass bodies clank against each other with the motion of the drawer. There’s no method to her selection. Fingers curl around the neck of one of them, draws it out, and unscrews the cap. Lexa’s throat burns as she knocks back a swig straight from the bottle’s opening. In the back of her mind, she wonders what kind of demons Octavia had been running from when she hit the streets.

After jotting a few notes down on a post-it, Lexa pushes herself out of her office chair and clicks off the overhead light. The glow of her clock resting in the corner tells her it’s about time she call it a day and find her way home. The long list of things to do could wait another day. No doubt Indra will have accomplish several of them by tomorrow afternoon. Lexa feels the cacoon of her apartment calling her.

The journey home isn’t a far one. Stepping out into the narrow hall, Lexa turns away from the doorway that opens onto the lobby floor. Instead she takes the other door at the back end. Locked. The key easily works through the tumbler and frees her to enter a narrow staircase leading up to the second floor above her business front. Lexa clicks the lock back into place behind her, along with two other deadbolts and a chain lock slipped into its safety groove. Then she lets out a soft sigh and trudges up the stairs with the bottle of liquor she’d chosen still clutched in one hand.

The small apartment space smells faintly of old cigarette smoke, burnt cheese from the last time she tried to cook, and lingering air freshener; it did less to mask the burnt cheese than just mixing in and making a complicated scent. It’s not that Lexa doesn’t care to make her home smell nice. The reality is that the smells remind her that it’s her own place. Her own safe haven. She’s not choking on the smell of chanel perfume and hairspray. No pinesol or baby powder coating the inside of her nasal passages until she’s certain she’s inhaling more fumes than oxygen. Those unfortunate aromas are things of the past.

The mattress shoved into the corner is a lumpy comfort, draped with a heather grey comforter and a jaggedly sewn patchwork quilt. Fat pillows in different shapes and sizes litter the bed space while a torn curtain hangs from the ceiling over it like a poor man’s canopy. To some, it may seem pathetic; a temporary fix for the proper thing. But to Lexa, it’s perfect. It’s hers. Cozy and different. Just how she wants it.

It’s clean, even if it’s sparse and eclectically decorated. She can’t stand clutter. Even when she’s shitfaced drunk, she’ll pick up after herself haphazardly. Call it a side effect of her upbringing. She’d tried for a long time to be messy out of spite, but it hadn’t lasted long before the gnawing anxiety got the better of her and her bones went on autopilot to correct her mistake. At least she never worries about tripping over boots.

Lexa flips on the lights hanging from exposed pipes before sliding onto a stool and bringing the bottle of rum back to her lips for another gulp. Another burn. Another moment of chasing away her crowded thoughts.

“Hey there, Gus,” she greets with a toast of her bottle toward him. Her green eyes glance over Gustus where he lies exposed.

His scales gleam from under the fluorescent bulb that lights up his tank. A beautiful Blood Python in his custom vivarium setup. Lexa smiles at him as he presses his face to the side of the glass and she stands, the bottle remaining on the bar countertop. Her gaze jumps quickly through the things she’s become accustomed to checking; humidity, ambient temperatures, fecal droppings, skin shed. All is well. Lexa may have skimped on certain aspects of her living quarters but she makes certain Gustus lives in snake luxury.

Peering at him through the glass as she moves into his direct line of sight, she offers, “I’ll get you out soon. Let me just grab something to eat and a quick shower, then you can help me pick out what music we should listen to.”

It turns out something to eat is little more than a jar of hummus and cheese crackers. But it will do. She doesn’t need much. Her form of dinner comes with her out onto the fire escape outside her window so that she can take a smoke. With a few drags of the cigarette between bites of food and sips of rum, Lexa doesn’t think over anything. Her mind skates. Forcibly so. She’ll get the shipment replacement for the records, even if she winds up dishing more money out for it. Octavia isn’t likely to disappoint. Smiling blondes will pass by with music choices leaning toward unorthodox. No calls from her sister recently. Gus will need to be fed this weekend. Each thought dips in, clinging for a moment or two before working its way back out of her mind. Her therapist would have said she keeps herself on the surface, skimming instead of diving. Lexa thinks skimming feels just grand. More importantly, skimming keeps her safe. Sane.

But skimming only holds sway for so long. It’s in the shower that it comes for her.

Hot water streams down her back, parting ways over her shoulders. The calm surface of her mind shifts so suddenly that Lexa doesn’t have time to realise the quicksand it becomes before she’s staring wide-eyed, breath laboured as it gets stuck in her chest. 

Blood.

It’s everywhere. A sticky coat that covers her chest, dripping off her hands as the coagulation breaks down from between her fingers and swirls away in the drain. Gulping down the thickness in her throat, Lexa scrubs hard at her hands, desperate to rid herself of the darkness clinging beneath her fingernails. Her legs feel weak as the heat of her shower begins to crowd around her, stifling instead of comforting.

“No, go away,” she whispers, fingers scraping each other, dragging over her stained palms as the water of her shower clings to her lashes. “Please, stop. I didn’t--I had to. Fuck--stop.” Her eyes squeeze shut against the sight. She can’t breathe. She can’t cope.

And as fast as it came on, the sight is gone. Her trembling fingers are perfectly clean. Nothing stuck to the edges of her cuticles. There’s no viscous redness staining her bare chest. All is water and nearly invisible tendrils of steam. Perfectly safe, entirely harmless to her. It’s gone. A haunting vision and nothing more. Nothing more.

Lexa releases a shaky breath as she reaches through the curtain to grab at the rum resting atop her toilet’s back tank. Another two gulps down her throat helps to blast through the tightness. Burning bright as it warm her gut and chases away the fine tremor in her veins. “Nothing more. Nothing less. I’m _fine_.”

When she steps out of her shower, clean if not refreshed, Lexa wraps a towel around herself and pads out of the small bathroom without looking at herself. She makes quick work of drying off and dressing in a pair of pyjama pants and an oversized shirt. Back to skimming. Back to surface thoughts. Back to drinking to chase away memories. She’s fine. 

They don’t happen often anymore. She’s set up so many safety measures to keep them from dragging her under. Indra doesn’t agree with the choice to drown the noises buzzing in her head with a bit too much liquor but it’s better than the alternatives. Gustus’ presence and the sounds of music filling her apartment help a great deal. Lexa draws Gus out of his tank from the front sliding glass door and takes a moment to appreciate the strong pull of muscle rippling over her skin as he makes himself comfortable on her arm, head searching for a new place to rest. Smooth scales shift as nature intended as he moves. Turning to the metal spray-painted boxes on top of her dresser, she holds him out. 

“First, which genre, hm?” 

Gustus wavers over the boxes, the tensile strength present in how he can hold his upper body aloft in the air without once making himself victim to the temptation of gravity’s pull. Then he slides further out away from Lexa’s outstretched arm and settles atop the box labeled ‘Classical’. 

__Green eyes brighten as she steps forward and lifts the lid. “Good choice.”_ _

__Then she watches as he moves across the records that lie inside until he stops long enough to flick his tongue over one record. Once, twice--when he’s stayed in that place and smelled the vinyl sleeve five times, Lexa nods as she fingers him back up to rest him against her shoulder. With her freed hands, she pulls the sleeve out and holds it up to the light._ _

__“Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9--the Berlin Philharmonic performance.” With a nod, Lexa carries her reptilian friend over to the record player and sets the vinyl onto its post. Turning on the machine--a modern adaptation to the original music player--she passes the needle to the very edge to play the entire vinyl from the beginning. She inches the volume up until it just edges out her thoughts, giving her space to breathe freely._ _

__With a small smile, she hears the effortless blend of the winds, strings, and percussion coalesce as she sweeps around her apartment. Another pass of alcohol down her throat and a hand brushing over the scales of Gustus, Lexa settles herself to the floor beside her bed, tugging a broad hardcover book out from under the mattress. The drawer to her nightstand holds a cluttered collection of supplies and the young woman begins to destroy a fresh page of the creative journal as the trumpets sounds in the opening Adagio. The python, all eight feet of him, moves slowly over her arm and down to the floor. Lexa reminds herself that this is one of the reasons she meticulously cleans the floors as she does. Her man can’t explore if the wooden floor is littered with dust for him to inhale and get sick from. She lets him meander toward her bed. Of course. He wants the warm blankets and she lets him._ _

__By the end of the night, as dawn creeps on the horizon, Lexa will be blissfully intoxicated with another page of glue and paper, tape and coloured drawings filling in the gaps between the mashed collages she creates. An outlet she always embraces but has become rather dependent on in the last several years._ _

__Being haunted sometimes leaves her drained, but she manages._ _

__xxxx_ _

__Three different alarms blare through Lexa’s ear canals at eight a.m. Letting out a groan, she throws an arm over her eyes as the cacophony of sounds persist. Alarm one comes from her cellphone that she knows she set on its charging dock even drunk. Little powerful speakers wail with the siren so familiar to the Silent Hill franchise. Alarm two sounds from across the studio space where a cheap alarm clock trills the classic beeping, sitting on the window ledge. The third comes from the kitchen counter. Another clock, this one the ringing of bells from the metal contraption she’d paid five dollars to have someone fix. The third alarm beckons her toward the kitchen where her coffee maker has already been pre-programmed and sends a wafting scent of delicious coffee grounds through the apartment, warmed and ready for her._ _

__“I’m up!” she calls as she throws herself out of the bed, snatching her phone and turning the first off as she pads up to Gus’ tank. Good. He peeks out from his hide at the racket and Lexa smirks. Even at her most intoxicated moments, she always makes certain to put her precious things away so they’re safe._ _

__She smacks the second alarm into silence before moving into the kitchen space and resetting the third. As she does, she yanks the carafe from its port and draws down a clean mug from the cabinet. In seconds, she has her java ready, steaming tendrils curling up from the cup’s dark surface. Just the smell itself helps Lexa feel more awake and as she carries the morning pick-me-up out to her fire escape perch to cool as she lights a morning smoke and reminds herself what she has to do at work today._ _

__Octavia. Paperwork. Business calls for more records they should have already been sent in the first place._ _

__She sends her words through the cracked window into her apartment. “Gus, you can go down to work for me today. I’ll be the snake friend today and lounge around. How ‘bout that?”_ _

__There’s no response from the reptile’s tank and Lexa doesn’t expect one. Instead she sighs before snubbing out the butt of her cigarette in the ashtray and picks up her cup of coffee, sipping it as she moves inside toward the array of dressers that do not match. It’s far easier getting dressed for work when she’s the owner and makes the rules. No need for stiff collars and pant suits or a retail uniform; no holes, no crazy colours. Lexa takes another long sip of the scalding coffee before she draws out her outfit for the day and carries them to the screened off changing space she set up. In minutes, she’s dressed and ready to begin another day of business._ _

__Once she’s left her loft and locked the door behind her, Lexa drops the cup of coffee off on her desk before walking out to the floor where Indra already stands watch at the counter. At her boss’ appearance, the woman looks up, taking stock of the shorter of the two._ _

__“How much sleep did you get?”_ _

__Lexa meets Indra’s gaze with a flat expression. “Enough.”_ _

__Her friend shakes her head as she retorts, “If your liver or lungs don’t kill you first, the lack of sleep will do you in.”_ _

__“I’ll pencil it into my schedule.” Lexa’s dry response draws a sigh from Indra but the conversation--an old one they’ve had far too many times--gets cut short as the door sends the familiar guitar chords into the air and Octavia Blake appears. She holds two travel cups aloft with a wide smile._ _

__“I thought I’d bring you both some coffee,” she clarifies._ _

__Lexa just stares as the girl steps up to the counter and sets one down before Indra, holding the other out to her. “Decaf skim latte with one pump of vanilla,” she nods to Indra’s cup, “and black with tons of sugar.”_ _

__Reaching into her pocket she draws out a few more packets as she adds, “I brought more if it’s not enough. Indra just said it has to a lot but that’s not much to go off of.”_ _

__“Thank you, Octavia.” Indra picks up her own cup but doesn’t immediately drink from the small opening. Instead her dark eyes remain trained on Lexa. The owner of the record store stares at the coffee cup, expression unreadable to the girl offering it up. Octavia frowns, shifting uneasily as silence descends._ _

__Indra’s voice breaks through, soft but firm. “It’s safe.”_ _

__Releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, Lexa reaches out and takes the cup. When her green eyes finally move to Octavia, she sees the young woman’s brow furrowed with unspoken questions. “Don’t try so hard,” she offers before turning on her heel and walking toward the employee door. “Come. You have forms to fill out.”_ _

__But she doesn’t miss the slight fall of the other woman’s expression. Disappointment. _Get used to it_ , she thinks to herself. _ _

__xxxx_ _

__The paperwork doesn’t take long to get through. Lexa’s biggest concern had been that Octavia’s lack of stable residence would mean that things like her address and social security number would be lost. She had been prepared for the possibility but the young woman seemed capable of jumping those hurdles all on her own. All pertinent information comes without incident. The only line of tension had come from Octavia’s frequent glances at the store-ordered coffee cup resting at Lexa’s elbow, cooling untouched. But she only had to look at her new boss to see that the hard green gaze offers no answer. The owner shows no interest in explaining her reason behind not embracing the offered drink._ _

__Lexa collects Octavia’s completed forms with a sharp nod, setting them beside her desktop computer before standing and waving for the young woman to follow her out of the office. “The forms will go into the system and I will contact you by the end of the week with your tentative schedule after looking over your availability and receiving the turnaround on your background check.”_ _

__A flash of anxiety flickers over Octavia’s face at the mention of a background check and Lexa carefully turns away as she adds in an even tone, “All a formality. I am aware of your background in a broad sense and I doubt I will come across something that bars you from working for me.”_ _

__As the two of them re-enter the main floor, Lexa hears the girl let out a soft sigh. It doesn’t come as a surprise. They’ve all been in similar situations. It’s one of the reasons she agreed to take Octavia Blake on. Lexa had once been there and will do what she can in her capacity as a business owner to provide others the chance to get on their feet. Giving Indra a nod that conveys all she needs to know, Lexa stops at the register counter and bids Octavia farewell._ _

__Just as the girl steps up to the door to head out, a flash of blonde hair appears in the shop window reaching out to pull the door of the shop open just as Octavia gives it a push outward._ _

__“Oh sorry!” The blonde immediately offers before blinking where she stands in the doorway. “Octavia? Goodness, it’s been awhile, how are you!”_ _

__Lexa doesn’t miss the wide smile. Similar to the one she’d seen on the young woman before. This time directed at Octavia who offers a smile back. “I’m good, Clarke. Sorry we haven’t seen each other. Bell and I finally found a place. He got a job at Ark and Co. so we’ve mostly been settling in.”_ _

__“That’s excellent news.” While the woman, Clarke, seems genuinely pleased, Lexa spots a hint of self-satisfaction in blue eyes. “And what about you?”_ _

__Octavia’s gaze turns over her shoulder to take in Indra and Lexa where they stand. Clarke’s gaze follows as the dark-haired new hire answers, “I believe I just got a position working here, actually.”_ _

__This time, the broad smile on Clarke’s face loses the self-satisfaction and beams with pride and approval. “It’s a perfect fit for you, O. Maybe you’ll be able to show me some good bands once you’ve gotten familiar with the place.”_ _

__The happy reunion begins to get under Lexa’s skin. Patience thinning. It’s not as if she needs to be present and she turns to head back toward the office. She needs to harass the company responsible for yanking their chain over missing records. A stronger show of muscle likely in order. Indra can play sitter to the customer. Except the moment Lexa attempts to make her exit, the blonde calls out._ _

__“Wait!” When Lexa glances over her shoulder, she sees Clarke pull Octavia into a quick hug before ushering herself inside the shop with blue eyes trained on the proprietor. She comes to stop before Lexa with a hesitant smile now, shifting on her feet as she adds, “Sorry. I came here hoping to catch you specifically. I’m Clarke. I was in here yesterday and I was hoping I could get your help with some music choices.”_ _

__Lexa turns back fully, biting her tongue against a sigh though she doesn’t hold back the irritation from her expression. When she spares Indra a glance, the woman shrugs and answers the unspoken question. “Not my genre of expertise.”_ _

__Green eyes swivel back to hold blue and Lexa considers Clarke as a whole. Nothing screams metalhead. A light blue blouse that brings out the shades and dimension in her ocean irises, khaki trousers, and a pair of brown leather boots. Neiman Marcus if she’s not mistaken, with a heel to put the blonde slightly taller than Lexa herself. Her appearance stands as a stark contrast to Lexa’s personal choice in attire._ _

__“Looking for gifts for the metal head in your life?”_ _

__The question is a reasonable one. Often they receive customers who fly in, flustered over having no idea what to gift a friend or loved one with contrary music tastes to them. Yet Clarke’s face lights up with amusement, her eyes creasing in the corners as her lips tug upward and she lets out a bold laugh. Shaking her head, Clarke finally quiets her laughter to reply, “No. But you’re not the first to jump to that conclusion.”_ _

__As she adds further explanation, her gaze becomes furtive, as if she’s imparting a secret that she hopes the two other occupants of the room will keep to themselves. “You see, I never thought I’d like loud thrashing screamo music. But I’ve found it helps me work, helps me create better than my usual tunes. I just discovered it a few months ago and--well--I don’t have anyone to go to who knows the genre and can suggest new artists that will work for what I need.”_ _

__One of Lexa’s dark brows arches at the admission. What a minute ago was an obligation to assist a customer becomes more of a personal intrigue. How did a woman like Clarke discover she worked best with guttural screaming lyrics and heavy chords and drums? Not to mention, how is this put together blonde associated with someone like Octavia and her brother? What did Clarke have to do with Bellamy’s new job? Because that fleeting gleam in the blonde’s face suggested she’d been involved in some way. Lexa would bet her personal vinyl collection on it._ _

__Lexa gives a tilt of her head, inclined toward the rows of albums laid out; a silent invitation for Clarke to follow her as she turns and makes her way toward the back corner where the punk and metalcore genres are organised._ _

__xxxx_ _

__The amount of genuine curiosity and interest Clarke takes in learning about the different bands and musicians makes the job of curating specific records for the blonde far more enjoyable than Lexa anticipated. Each album sleeve the connoisseur holds up, confident in her selection, is taken up by enthusiastic fingers--well manicured though sporting a few smudges along the knuckles and palms._ _

__“I think I’ll start with these four for now,” Clarke insists, though her gaze rakes over the others Lexa had laid out in suggestion. It’s clear that she would snatch them all up if she could. “I can’t splurge too much starting out.”_ _

__“Of course.” Lexa nods before she turns away from the rack of vinyls to give her attention fully to her receptive customer. “Although I had been under the impression you wouldn’t be coming back to ask for my assistance until next week. Not the next day.”_ _

__Clarke has the decency to look chagrin as she offers, “I thought I wouldn’t either but I have a big project to present this weekend and I haven’t finished it. I figured the sooner I could get new music, the better I would do on it.”_ _

__Lexa inclines her head in understanding as the blonde grins and adds, “And you’ve been a huge help. So thank you. I’ll likely be a regular of yours, if you don’t mind the deluge of questions.”_ _

__“I don’t mind,” Lexa returns. Though her lips only twitch upward for a second, the truth of her words shines in her green gaze. “It’s refreshing.”_ _

__Clarke’s grin widens into a bright smile. The same that had caught Lexa off guard the day before when it had been directed at her in passing. It makes the woman blink now. It’s a stunning smile, one that glows with genuine depth of emotion and appreciation for others. It’s a heady thing to have aimed on her and Lexa looks away to avoid its scalding warmth._ _

__“Also.” The blonde’s shift in tone draws Lexa’s gaze again. Clarke’s expression soft and eyes penetrating deeper than the proprietor feels comfortable with. “I wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for Octavia. After all that she’s been through, I’m glad you’ve given her a chance to make something of herself.”_ _

__Another blink. A furrowing of dark brows. Lexa stares hard at Clarke, trying to read in her demeanor, the flow of respect and appreciation in her bottomless blue eyes. “How do you know Octavia?”_ _

__It’s Clarke’s turn to look away, breaking the moment with a shrug. “She and I used to go to high school together. We’ve always been close, even when things weren’t easy.”_ _

__It’s a sign for Lexa to stop asking questions. There’s no reason to pry. It’s not her place to know if Clarke is unwilling to offer up more than her vague explanation. But it doesn’t stop the curiosity from growing in her chest. Those who know and present such a level of care and concern for people like Octavia and Bellamy Blake are the type of people Lexa wouldn’t object to getting to know. Especially when a person like Clarke, who appears to be well-bred, successful, and capable of affording designer shoes, cares enough to help where she can._ _

__“Well you’re welcome here any time you need new tunes.” Lexa turns to put away the albums not chosen today. “I’m certain Octavia will appreciate a familiar face as she gets used to her responsibilities as my employee.”_ _

__Even with her back turned, Lexa feels the smile Clarke gives. “I look forward to it. Thanks again.”_ _

__The heels of the woman’s boots clack across the worn wood floor as she goes to purchase her records with Indra at the register. Lexa takes her time replacing the records in the correct alphabetical order. Clarke shares a few words with Indra but nothing the owner can make out from a distance and a few moments later, the blonde’s heels precede the guitar riffs as she makes her exit._ _

__“Indra.”_ _

__With a molasses slow shift of her gaze, Indra answers, “Yes, little commander.”_ _

__Lexa makes quick strides back to the front counter with narrowed gaze. “I thought we agreed to cut the ‘little’ of your strange nickname.” She makes a passing wave of her hand before forging forward, leaning her palms against the counter surface. “Did you know that the blonde was a friend of Octavia’s?”_ _

__“Had no idea.” Indra’s passive expression reveals nothing and Lexa lets out a huff. “But I was aware that someone was helping Octavia and her brother when I could not. I did not know who it was but now I have a good hunch.”_ _

__Lexa rolls her eyes with abandon as she turns to head back to her office. “You don’t do hunches, Indra.”_ _

__“That’s true. And neither do you.”_ _

__“My goat sacrifice is back on schedule so don’t bother me unless it’s life or death.”_ _

__“Yes--little commander.”_ _

__Lexa shakes her head as she lets the employee door slam shut behind her. Sometimes she questions what she sees in Indra. Even if she was the only one who believed in her when no one else was willing to offer her support._ _

__xxxx_ _

__There is a level of finesse and experience needed in order to create a balanced mixed drink of coffee and whiskey. Too much coffee, and there’s no point in having the liquor in there to begin with. Loading it with too much whiskey and the bitterness of the coffee taints the fine burn of the liquor, making it taste more like drinkable oil. Lexa has become adept at making it just right. She holds it in her hands, her mixed drink, as she balances Polis Vinyl’s monthly finance spreadsheet. The replacement records from the failed shipment is going to cut into the budget. While she’d been able to talk the distributor down from paying full wholesale for the replacement shipment, he wouldn’t send them for free either._ _

__“Dammit.”_ _

__It’s not a huge bind for the business. More a troubling nuisance. Lexa hates for the record shop to be anywhere but perfectly in the green. Especially when the thought of opening up the bank account she hasn’t touched in three years always looms at the edge of her mind. With a heavy sigh, Lexa drains the rest of her alcoholic caffeine concoction and shuts the desktop shut. No more numbers for tonight._ _

__Before going up to her apartment, the raven-tressed woman steps into the shop and strides swiftly over to double check that the front door is locked tight and the alarm system’s already keyed up. She adds the motion detector on and then strides out before it sets in, locking the employee door on her way down the hall to her own home entrance._ _

__“Gustus, did you vanquish any bad guys while I was busy playing boss?” Lexa quips as she passes his terrarium, grinning to herself as the snake’s tongue flickers from his face in greeting. “I thought so. So vicious you are.”_ _

__Paint chipped nails reflect in the exposed light fixtures hanging over the kitchen as the young woman yanks open her refrigerator and leans in. A bottle of wine, leftover chinese, a bottle of sriracha alongside a jar of relish. And a jar of kimchi that Lexa opts for as she tries to avoid the knowledge that she needs to buy groceries. Not soon but badly._ _

__She takes the jar and fork with her as she traipses over to the records, speaking aloud to no one but herself, “My turn to pick tonight.”_ _

__Maybe it has to do with Clarke’s keen interest in the genre or the penchant she has for the artists of the genre herself, but Lexa thumbs through to pick out her top choice at the moment when it comes to screaming metalcore: Chelsea Grin._ _

__With the needle dialed in and the music blaring from the player’s speakers, Lexa shoves pieces of the pickled kimchi into her mouth as she moves around her open planned studio apartment. It’s not so much about hearing the music as it is feeling it for the woman. She isn’t an adequate dancer, not since she quit lessons as a child, but the energy behind each artist’s musical composition stirs one to move and feel it. To take up the same energy and express it in whatever creative of way that comes to mind._ _

__Lexa can see why Clarke would be driven to work more creatively with this music._ _

__The creative impulse, the invasion of the thrashing chords and blended cry of vocals works its way into Lexa’s skin and she takes up a bottle of Jim Beam in hand to swig from before collapsing breathless on the floor beside her bed to withdraw her journal and begin to collage, taking old record sleeves for the purpose and sticking them into the new page, leaving a blank space in the middle. There’s no space for thought as the music consumes her, hugging her brain stem. When she picks up sketch pencils, Lexa doesn’t consider what she intends to fill the blank space in the center with. She simply acts. Alcohol warm in her belly and the passion of metalcore tracks firing in her veins, she marks the page, connecting lines and shadowing into the depth. Yet she doesn’t see the finished product before her body forfeits to drowsy slumber under the weight of intoxication. The record continues to play until the needle reaches its end and lifts away._ _

__—_ _

___Darkness. No not darkness. Pitch black horror. All she can hear is her own harsh breaths. Feel the stickiness of dried blood and sweat and dirt coating her skin. Her skin itches but she can’t scratch, her limbs like weights at her sides._ _ _

___Heavy, broken._ _ _

___Worthless—_ _ _

___Emptiness and nothing echoing between the spaces in her organs, rattling her bones where marrow should reside._ _ _

___The worthless emptiness shivers over her skin, staining the air as it oozes from her pores._ _ _

___And then the footsteps._ _ _

___The tread of boots stomp in her skull. What was empty fills to the brim with fear. Her body clenches tight with fright and tar thick dread._ _ _

___A flash of light and a shadow looming in a doorway._ _ _

___“Hey there pet.”_ _ _

___The stench of tobacco and oil invades her senses. Her stomach twists and rolls but there’s nothing to eject. She hasn’t been fed in a day. At least. Time has become irrelevant here._ _ _

___“Here to extract some of you. For proof. Same as before.”_ _ _

___Grubby calloused fingers bruise her brittle arm. Her skin burns and a whimper falls off her cracked dry lips. “No.” There’s no fight in her though. Her objection leaks from her as a groan. A well versed line she already knows won’t be heeded._ _ _

___Gravel-chewed laughter and a blow to her head give her temporary light in the bursts of stars that swim to life in her weak vision. But she doesn’t need sight to feel the vicious teeth of a blade breaking her flesh. It digs into her, scooping out a fresh scream she hasn’t thought her diaphragm capable of producing after so many. He cuts away more than her body. His knife severs her soul, masticating her will to spit it out in tattered pieces. The bite of the blade decimates her identity, stealing another piece of her with it._ _ _

___Her scream feels endless. Another part of herself gone with the sound._ _ _

__—_ _

__A scream that throws Lexa back to reality, to her dimly lit apartment where she lies half out of her bed, tangled in sheets, slick with sweat and a sore throat. The scream dies on her tongue as she tugs her bedding off herself and groans at the sight of her floor. She’d knocked her bottle of liquor over in her sleep. The place reeks of alcohol and the only saving grace is that her journal rests open on the other side, far from the ethanol spill. Dry and safe._ _

__Though she should clean up the mess she’s made in her disturbed sleep, the sketch in the center of her journal sucks Lexa’s attention in and she crawls forward to get a better look._ _

__A smile. Bright. Wide. Full of emotional openness._ _

__It looks like a parody of Clarke’s. Lexa lets her eyes fall closed. It’s not really her’s. Not to mention she’s never been greatly artistic. Just drunken fits of trying to process her mind constructively. Without the aid of dangerous things in hand. When she opens her eyes once more, her gaze seeks out the clock across the room to see it’s only four a.m. The slowly drying sweat sticking to her skin and small tremors in her muscles tell Lexa that she’s not falling back asleep tonight so she pushes to her feet to get started on cleaning up the wasted Jim Beam. She’ll need to add more liquor to her list of things to buy when she gets up the nerve to do grocery shopping._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mention of insects in copious amounts (roaches/flies) and blood.

Three days after her visit to ask about Lexa’s music recommendations, Clarke returns, bringing her smile and questions with her. Lexa is in the office and unaware of the budding metalhead’s appearance until there’s a knock at her door.

“Open.”

Indra slips her head and shoulders through the opening she makes for herself. Lexa’s gaze lifts to meet the older woman’s darker one as she intones evenly, “Your blonde music friend is here and seeks your presence.”

“Let her know I’ll be out.” Lexa waits until Indra vacates before slowly standing to her feet. The night terrors had been plaguing her for the past three nights. And while she usually holds herself to not drinking during the day, her will to keep it that way has been thinning at a rapid rate. At least an engaging interaction with a customer will keep her fully distracted and her order planning isn’t urgent at the present moment.

Lexa checks herself in the mirror next to her office door before heading out. A heavy layer of eyeliner makes it easy to dismiss the purple shadows staining the skin beneath her eyes and they aren’t too bloodshot to draw questions. She tugs the hair tie off, letting her dark hair fall free of the ponytail she’d yanked it into earlier to keep it off her neck. Lexa’s thick hair has become her best form of defence against curious gazes and prying inquiries. It might be warmer than usual for mid-November today, but she’ll suffer if it means minimising the chances that anyone spots her scars.

“Welcome back, Clarke.” Lexa lifts her head in acknowledgement as she steps out of the back. The blonde in question leans against the front counter and smiles to reveal her rows of white teeth at the brunette’s appearance.

“Hey there.” There are records already resting on the counter that Indra picks up and slips into a bag before passing it over to Clarke without a word. When Lexa frowns, the blonde sees it and hastens to explain. “I did a bit of exploring for myself using Spotify to try out some other artists. I didn’t want to bother you with more recommendations since I’m sure you have better things to do than hand me a bunch of vinyls.”

“I see.”

When Clarke nods, there’s a hesitance in the tilt of her gaze and uncertainty tugging at the corners of her mouth. She shifts from one foot to the other—a pair of ankle high boots without a heel this time—before blurting out, “I actually wanted to know if you’d like to come get coffee with me?”

Lexa blinks. “Now?”

With a vigorous nod of her head, Clarke adds, “I still do have questions I’d love to fire off at you but I thought it would be more comfortable to do at a coffee shop instead of standing among the racks for an hour. Plus I’ve been cooped up in my apartment for the past three days with a project and I could use some good company and better coffee than the crap I make.”

Tension slowly tugs each muscle tight inside Lexa’s slender frame. Her breath comes a little quicker than it had a minute before and her green gaze jumps from the blonde with her invitation to Indra who has stood silent observer to the interaction to the windowpane set in the shop’s entrance to the sidewalk. Clarke seems like a nice and decent person she reasons to herself. Nothing bad should come of it. Just conversation. Safe conversation about something she’s passionate about. Yet Lexa finds herself planted and immovable. Even her lips refuse to form a reply.

Indra breaks the silence before it even forms fully. Lexa wants to sink into relief that the woman is coming to her rescue. But the gratitude doesn't take hold. “We’re clearly not busy and I was just thinking I could use a latte. If you wouldn’t mind reminding Lexa to bring me back one before you leave the shop, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Clarke answers with a kind smile for Indra. Then she looks back to Lexa who glares at Indra with abandon.

With a thick swallow, the brunette lets her gaze fall back to Clarke who has taken to staring at her with quelled enthusiasm. Clearly she doesn’t know what to do with Lexa’s silence and lack of action. It’s not that Lexa doesn’t wish to but—dammit all, she’s not comfortable with it. It shouldn’t surprise her that Indra has yanked the rug out from under her. They have regularly argued over the self-imposed isolation Lexa clings to but it had always come down to Indra respecting her friend and boss. 

Finally, Lexa nods and takes a few steps forward until she stands just before the blonde woman. The smile she receives for the effort feels like it might melt her face off from this small distance so Lexa’s thankful when Clarke turns and heads for the door, freeing her from the blast of a smile she doesn’t know how to handle. Though her feet unstick themselves and make advances toward the door and the blonde waiting with it open for her, Lexa doesn’t hesitate to cast one dark glare Indra’s way before stepping out into the afternoon sun with fingers curled into fists at her sides.

It’s not that she can’t leave but that she feels threatened from all sides the moment she steps off her own property. Exposed. At risk of being spotted, recognised. Assaulted. Accosted by someone from her past who might attempt to ruin her progress toward being a clean citizen. Lexa knows she shouldn’t let her paranoia hinder her from living. Indra has said as much time and time again. Yet it doesn’t stop the anxiety from growing in the pit of her stomach and warping her view of each stranger she passes. If she still had a therapist, they would assign her tasks that take her outside for periods.

And Lexa wouldn't have complied.

“It’s not far.” Clarke’s voice breaks through the racing thoughts firing off in Lexa’s mind, drawing her back to the company she’s in. When she glances up through the dark curtain of her hair, there is true worry etched between the blonde’s brows. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Breathe.

“No.” Lexa fails to keep the edge from her voice and the sudden gap that widens between the two of them as they walk speaks volumes. Letting out a breath that can almost be considered a sigh, Lexa tries again. “It isn’t you. I just—don’t get out often.”

“Oh.”

Silence falls as Lexa refuses to explain herself further and Clarke chooses not to press the issue. If she’s disappointed by it, Lexa doesn't know as she keeps her gaze somewhere between her feet and the path in front of them. The two of them round the corner and are greeted with the smell of coffee beans wafting out of the corner cafe—The Grounder Bean. As they step inside, Clarke turns to Lexa and offers softly, “Why don’t you find us the perfect spot and I’ll order for us both. What would you like?”

The last thing Lexa wants to do is agree to let the blonde buy her coffee but she feels too exposed standing in the middle of the shop and already glances around to find a suitable place to sequester herself. Comfort or pride?

“Blonde roast and just bring the sugar container to the table.” When she receives a nod from Clarke, the brunette strides away, making a beeline for the free table in the far corner where she slips herself into the chair that puts her back to the wall. As soon as she’s settled, Lexa lets out a sigh between parted lips. Some of the anxiety slips away now that she can view the patrons from her spot without fear that someone might slip up behind her.

The vantage point also gives Lexa view of Clarke as she stands in line. They couldn’t appear to be more opposite. Her blonde hair done up in a messy bun, she wears a brown leather jacket with a bright blue blouse underneath that draws her sky blue eyes to the forefront. Sensible dark wash jeans hug her legs that end in the brown ankle boots Lexa had noted earlier. In contrast, Lexa sits in the corner wearing a pair of fake leather pants, scuffed black combat boots that lace up her calves, and a long sleeve white tunic top printed with a moon in blacks and greys. The tunic sits under a black vest littered with a few chains and covered on the back with band patches and other offensive and alternative ones that she’s collected. Where Clarke’s makeup is tastefully done, Lexa sports nothing more than the eyeliner ringing her green eyes.

So far, the only common ground between them is how the blonde has taken a liking to alternative metal.

But Clarke seems to be on friendly terms with Octavia, who has her own brand of alternative style. Perhaps there’s more to the blonde than what’s projected to the casual eye. So Lexa waits until her companion comes over carrying two mugs and the canister of sugar as requested.

“Thank you,” Lexa expresses as her mug is set before her and the sugar beside it. “I’ll pay you back.”

Clarke’s deadpan expression begs to differ with the offer. “The fact that you agreed and you haven’t left yet is payment enough. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uneasy at all.”

To avoid the intensity of that blue gaze, Lexa looks down at her coffee and begins to pour copious amounts of sugar into it as she retorts, “Like I said, it’s not you.”

“But I offered. And you never actually said yes. Your coworker did that.”

Lexa’s lips twist with low level ire at being reminded what Indra did. “Indra will get what’s coming for her for that.”

The blonde laughs. It’s such a lovely sound that Lexa finds herself looking up from stirring her coffee to see Clarke’s blue eyes on her, glittering with mirth. “I hope she doesn’t suffer too badly.”

With a roll of her eyes, Lexa hides her small smirk behind her coffee mug as she lifts it to her lips and takes a sip. The perfect amount of sweet to edge off the bitterness. “I still need her to be able to work for me so I’ll at least let her walk away from it.”

“That will be a mercy, surely.” Clarke’s easy banter makes it hard for Lexa to remain discomfited by being out in public and she shrugs in response as she takes another sip of her hot coffee before setting the mug down.

“I’ll have Octavia to take over if I find myself feeling less than merciful.”

Clarke shakes her head with a grin on her softly pink lips. “I’ll have to warn O not to get on your bad side. I’d hate for her to feel your wrath so soon after getting the job.”

As Clarke takes a sip of her own beverage, Lexa takes a moment to consider her before posing the question brought to the forefront of her mind. “You said you knew Octavia in high school—but you two are still close, it seems. Did you happen to have a hand in her brother getting his new job?”

The blonde sets down her mug and smirks, her gaze awash with conspiratorial pleasure. “How did you know I might have helped that happen?”

“You seemed a bit too pleased with yourself when your friend mentioned it at my shop earlier this week.”

Clarke’s head lifts in a half-nod as she intones, “Ah. Perceptive of you.” When Lexa provides no comment in return, she glances down at her drink with a small shrug. “I’ve known them both since we were kids actually. They moved in down the street from us when their mother passed away. And—well it’s not really my story to tell but they have had a lot of shit to deal with growing up so I knew Bellamy was looking for work and I put in a good word with the owner of Ark and Co. The owner is a friend of my mother’s. He’s perfectly qualified so it wasn’t as if I bribed someone or strong armed them into hiring him. I just wanted to make sure he had the strongest reference he could get.”

This share of knowledge furthers Lexa’s suspicions that Clarke comes from wealth. Not many people are family friends with owners of popular restaurants in the city. It makes her feel uneasy again. What if this girl is familiar with other well-to-do families of the city?

“Do you have a lot of connections like that?” Lexa’s questions flies from her mouth before she has a chance to reconsider. Clarke looks up so fast that the brunette almost fears she’s given herself whiplash. Narrowed eyes and a harsh set to her lips makes Lexa regret posing the question. It’s like a landmine she’s triggered, showing a harder side to Clarke that hadn’t been thought possible until now.

“What do you mean by that?”

Lexa grips her mug with both fingers but doesn’t break Clarke’s gaze. “A curious observation. Not everyone is friendly with restaurant owners.”

“My mother is a geriatric nurse at Trigeda General and was close with Marcus when his mother was being treated there. His mother didn’t make it but my mom made sure to keep in touch with him while he was grieving.” The answer is succinct but Lexa feels the tension building because of her wayward question. Clarke sits on the defensive, shoulders tense. “It’s not an arbitrary connection. Marcus Kane has become like family.”

Lexa finally drops her gaze, unable to maintain her resolve against the guarded heat in Clarke’s gaze. “I shouldn’t have made assumptions like that.” It’s the closest she gets to an outright apology and she hastens to add, “Your friend is lucky to have had you and your mother to support him through that.”

A rush of air escapes from Clarke and when Lexa looks up again, lifting her coffee cup to her lips to have something to do, she finds that the blonde holds herself less tightly and her gaze softens. “I’m sorry, too. I just—it felt as if you were accusing me of being filthy rich and using it to my advantage. I promise, I’m not that sort of person. If I had connections and money like that, I would have just given Octavia and Bellamy the money they needed to be self-sufficient already.”

The admission comes bluntly and Lexa feels a lump form in her throat. Money should never come up in conversation and she sorely regrets making any suggestion to it now. For a moment she has a strong impulse to get up and make a hasty retreat. But before she can convince her body to do as she wishes, Clarke is speaking again.

“But that wasn’t why I wanted your company. I really do have questions about heavy metal music.”

Lexa offers a small lopsided grin. A peace offering and a thank you for changing the subject without further discomfort. “Of course. I’ll answer as much as I possibly can but I’m not actually an artist of the genre, just a passionate fan.”

Clarke’s spotlight smile flickers to life once more as she dives into her questions.

“The genre—it seems so broad. I mean, typing heavy metal into spotify or a general search engine brings up so many artists and subgenres.”

Lexa nods. “Metal is an umbrella that houses a vast array of different subgenres. Some have very minor differences that distinguish them while others are blatantly different: Like late 80’s Iron Maiden versus Suicide Silence and Asking Alexandria. People have their preferences.”

“What are your preferences?” Clarke leans forward and the genuine curiosity stands out in her face.

Lexa arches one dark brow as she drinks her coffee, taking a moment to consider the question before setting her mug down. If she doesn't, she fears she'll drop it. She's not used to being the center of attention. Not now. “I am a music collector. What I prefer entirely depends on my mood at any given moment.”

Clarke’s lips pucker into a pout that Lexa can’t help but be enamoured with. “That’s entirely unhelpful.”

“What are you finding you enjoy best?” The brunette avoids the pouty entreaty, though she finds a small smile tugging at her lips. “You mentioned the more screaming, the better, yes?”

Clarke nods. “I think the harder it is for me to actually understand the lyrics, the better.”

“Why is that?”

The blonde doesn’t answer right away. Instead she drinks from her own mug as her gaze slides away from Lexa to hover somewhere over her shoulder. When her blue eyes find Lexa’s green again, she sets her drink down. “The lyrics can be distracting if I can tell what they’re saying. When I’m trying to create a design, I usually overthink every detail which seems to grind things to a halt more often than not. When I’m listening to the screaming and the thrashing instruments, they sort of blast my thoughts away and it lets me just work without thinking too hard about what I’m putting on the paper.”

It’s such an honest answer that Lexa doesn’t speak for a moment. She can only look at the blonde as she imagines her bent over a sketchbook or a canvas of some kind, blasting a screamo album from her record player and creating a masterpiece without struggling over it being perfect. She finds it hard to resist the thought of wishing she could sit in on the process, watch her work.

“That sounds silly doesn’t it?”

With a blink, Lexa falls back into the present and shakes her head. “Not at all. I can understand how it might work and if that’s the genre you lean toward, go with that. I would recommend listening to some of the artists responsible for shaping metal and inspiring the subgenres that sprouted out of it but whatever you feel gives you what you want and need, take that and run with it.”

Clarke’s lips tilt upward as she nods. “Thanks. It’s just still so unfamiliar to me and, well, I clearly don’t look like I’m someone who would be into it. I haven’t even told my friends I’ve been getting into it because I’m not sure how they’d take it.”

“Octavia seems like she’d be on board.”

“Probably. But she’s on board for a lot of things so I don’t always trust her judgment.”

The sly dig at her friend draws a bubble of laughter out of the brunette which her companion joins in on. The open honesty that Clarke shares with her makes Lexa feel she has to do the same in return. It’s something that never comes easily to her but at least where music is concerned, the challenge is minimal. “Even if you don’t dress like—well like me I suppose—it doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to enjoy the genre. Like I said, my musical tastes shift greatly depending on my mood. My personal collection has nearly everything—classical orchestra, rap and R&B albums, popular pop artists, indie, and metal of all subgenre flavors.”

A moment of silence follows before Clarke punctures it. “You listen to rap?”

Lexa laughs at the flabbergasted expression on her coffee companion’s face. “Careful, you might drop your jaw into your coffee. But yes, when I’m in the mood for it, I do. I’ll admit my moods tend to lend themselves to classical or the punk-rock-metal variety but all my albums get attention and a good listen.”

“Oh wow.” Clarke blinks as if she’s still trying to wrap her mind around this new information and Lexa lets her. She instead drinks more of her coffee, finishing it off and watching as the layer of undissolved sugar slides like sludge at the bottom.

As she sets her drained mug down off to the side, Clarke’s expression clears and her mouth opens to pose yet another question. This time though Lexa feels entirely unprepared to address what she brings to bear.

“Did you always want to open up a record shop?”

Lexa’s gaze shifts away, moving over the other patrons before settling on the floor. The question touches too close to her past and her mind reels as she attempts to satisfy Clarke’s curiosity without revealing things that should remain buried. The demons that she keeps six feet under at all costs while in unaware company.

“I didn’t know what I wanted growing up.” To be free. “But I always loved music and never had interest in going to college,” not after, “so I looked around for something I felt was missing from the city and realised I wanted to share with people the love for physical music albums.”

“Where did you go to high school?”

“Homeschooled.” It wasn’t far from the truth and Lexa had perfected that particular answer years previously.

Clarke nods with that look of ‘ah’ on her face. When she opens her mouth to voice something else—something Lexa hopes doesn’t press further into past experiences she’ll no doubt fabricate—the blonde’s phone goes off. A Mumford and Sons song plays and she never gets her question out as she pulls her mobile from her pocket and answers the call. As she does she mouths an apology to Lexa, who waves it away.

She also actively ignores the conversation of the call, only catching bits about designs and meeting, before Clarke turns back to her and sets her phone on the table. “Sorry about that. It looks like I have a meeting to run to now—plans for my current project need to be reassessed.” Lexa sees the disappointment stabbing in the crease of her brow and nods.

“Of course. Don’t worry about it. But thank you for this time. Let me know if you have any other music-related questions.”

Before Clarke says anything further, Lexa rises and exits the coffee shop. It’s abrupt and no doubt Lexa has left a startled blonde back at the table but lingering felt wrong to her. She can apologise for her swift departure later, if Clarke chooses to return after today. Lexa’s skin crawls with every step until she arrives unnoticed and unaccosted in front of her own shop. It isn’t until the brunette slips into the dimmer lighting of her record shop that she takes in a full breath. On the exhale, she feels relief and something else; a small warmth that could be explained away as the residual temperature of her coffee, but likely stems from having spent time in the company of someone who intrigued her. Company spent in a setting other than her shop. It’s novel in her life for her to connect with another person, and to associate with them beyond her familiar domain.

Indra promptly makes herself known with her inquiry. “Where’s my latte?”

“You don't deserve it.” Lexa lets her footfalls land heavy on the wood floor as she heads to her office without sparing Indra a glance.

“You enjoyed yourself, little commander,” Indra calls after her.

Lexa makes a point to share her middle finger with the older woman as she pulls the employee door open. “Indra, kindly fuck off.” 

xxxx

Clarke lets herself into her apartment as she releases a laboured sigh. Keys jangle as they fall into the little china plate she’d found at a thrift market last year. The next thing to drop is the large portfolio carrier with all her plans and sketches in it. As it drops and leans against the wall, Clarke gazes at it for a moment, knowing she should carry it further into the apartment and spread them all out, to go over the changes requested during her impromptu meeting. But after being told what was wrong with them, she doesn’t want to stare at the errors her business partners made glaringly obvious to her. She’s just spent over an hour peering at them. Time for a break. Starting with a long hot shower.

Normally, she only ever drops one of the records she’s recently purchased when she’s knee deep in her sketching. But after spending part of her day with the record store’s owner, it seems like she could do with a bit of thrashing noise in honour of their conversation; pleasantly strange and, at times, tense. Not to mention to blast away the critiques from the business she’s working with.

The needle drops into place and the first track of one of Strapping Young Lad’s albums begins. Apparently the cost of this band’s vinyls exceeds most others because they were released as a complete set. Lexa assured her that the cost was worth it and as she listens, the blonde has to agree. Clarke turns the shower on and bobs her head to the indiscernible lyrics as they pour out of the speakers. Each article of clothing shed is another weight off her frame. Sure, she’ll have to look over her work eventually and correct what needs to be corrected, but that’s not now. Now, Clarke welcomes the heat of water as she steps into the tub basin and shuts the curtain behind her. The chords of the screaming metal band pour through her synapses and allow some semblance of peace to come over the blonde.

Who knew that her ex-boyfriend would be such a total asshole and still influence her taste in music?

Clarke doesn’t end up thinking of Finn as she runs her hair under the water, fingers slicing through the strands. No, her mind falls on Lexa. The striking young woman responsible for the upkeep and recommendations at Polis Vinyl. It had been nice to spend time getting to know her at the coffee shop earlier in the day. Though to an extent, it seemed apparent that the dark-haired woman wasn’t wholly comfortable being there. Of course their conversation hadn’t been without its bumps. After how hard she worked to get to this point in life, Clarke can never quite keep herself from snapping when people assume she comes from some cushy life full of money and connections. At one time in her life, Clarke would have done anything to feel wealthy, to finally have money enough to pay household bills for her parents, to have the clothes everyone else had at school.

But what about Lexa? Had she come from money? It’s doubtful. No one loaded would open a record shop in the city. Vinyl might be in vogue right now, a retro vintage trend, but it hardly brings in the amount of money to make it worthwhile. Clarke wonders how Lexa fronted the money for it in the first place. Probably worked odd jobs. The way Lexa had talked about why she opened a record shop, it seemed like it was a passion for her, something she felt determined to do even if she couldn’t quite afford it. Even if it wouldn’t bring her a great deal of financial stability in the long run.

That sort of passion, the small spark she’d seen in liquid green eyes; Clarke feels drawn to it.

The blonde lets out a sigh as she scrubs away the day and continues to linger on the green eyes she’d enjoyed familiarising herself with. It was the best part of the day and Clarke wants to hold onto it. Onto the possibility she could make a new friend, someone who’s unfamiliar with her past. And someone she could learn about herself. Her best and closest friends were all people she knew growing up. They’d all gone to school together from elementary school upward. Lexa is new. Different. While she’d gotten to witness the growth of Octavia and Bellamy, from their foundation on to the trimmings and fresh coats of paint, Lexa is a structure she knows externally, architecture that Clarke wants to peal back. What lies behind the guarded green gaze—are her beams and scaffolding made of iron or wood, the foundation poured in neatly or hazarded by pock marks and unevenly laid? What made her feel that her monochromatic grunge wardrobe was the best fashion for her?

The shower cuts off and Clarke wraps herself in her favourite pink robe before toweling off her damp hair and stepping out of the bathroom. The album hasn’t finished playing yet but Clarke cuts it off and swaps it out for her well-loved Halsey album.

“I really need to stop using architect to think of people,” she mutters to herself as she heads into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of white wine. “Mom would say I’m too absorbed by my work.”

Her phone begins to vibrate where it sits on the small dining table and Clarke’s heart sinks. It's work again. Except when she grabs it, she doesn't recognise the number.

“Hello?”

“Clarke! It's Octavia. I got a phone!”

Her fear quickly vacates and Clarke smiles into the receiver. “O! That's awesome!”

“Isn't it? Bel surprised me with it. To celebrate me getting the job at the record shop!”

Throwing herself onto her goodwill sofa, Clarke cheers, “Well you deserve it! How’s your new place?”

The blonde hears her friend scoff. “Smells like cat piss but we’re working on it. When it smells better we’re going to throw a housewarming thing.”

“I'll be there the second you plan it.” Clarke has missed Octavia effusive presence in her life. It's just good to hear her happy and doing well. “Are you looking forward to working at Polis?”

There's a moment’s hesitation on the other end before Octavia provides an answer. “I am. Definitely. But Lexa--she's a bit strange.”

The blonde has an idea of what her friend means but she questions anyway. “What do you mean?”

“Well I wanted to make a good impression so I brought her coffee from The Grounder Bean. But she didn't drink it. I'm pretty sure she poured it out when I left. She wouldn't even take it from me until Indra said it was safe?”

It does sound strange, Clarke thinks. But she's not about to pass judgment.

“We all are a little strange, O. She probably worried you drugged it to make sure you got the job.”

They both laugh it off but Octavia cuts their revels short when she blurts, “Oh shit. Hey I have to go. Only have so many minutes on this thing for right now so--”

“Yeah no worries, O. Shoot me a text when you work your first day and I'll stop by! And you know my apartment is open to you whenever so don't be a stranger.”

“I won't. See you later.”

The line cuts off and Clarke lies back against the overstuffed cushions. It's not until her stomach makes a racket that she finally moves. Food. Then maybe she will look over the business plans. Or she'll watch a lifetime movie. Clarke figures after her glass of wine she'll have her answer.

xxxx

Lexa makes an escape from the record store earlier than usual, unable to reconcile with her earlier venture to the coffee shop. Indra doesn’t comment. She never does. Up in her flat, the woman pours herself a glass of scotch, opening her fridge to discover food inside. Thank god Indra hadn’t forced her to go do the shopping this time. Yet again, Lexa feels reassured that giving Indra the keys to her apartment was the right decision to make. There’s even a note stuck to the carton of soy milk.

_The next time I get your groceries, I won’t restock your liquor. -I_

Fair enough.

Lexa pulls out the makings for a sandwich, not feeling up for much else. Sips of scotch are taken between the creation of her meal. The glass is emptied by the time she takes her first bite. Refilled between the second and third. 

“Gustus, are you hungry?” she calls as she stride out of the kitchen space and rounds on the snake’s enclosure. “Your aunt was considerate enough to get you some food too.”

Indra had held reservations when Lexa came back from a local reptile show with the python in his critter box. At the time, he’d been a quarter of the size his is now. The dark-skinned woman had flung countless questions about the snake’s care at the girl. How large would he grow? Could she manage the upkeep and feeding requirements? Was it a good idea for her first pet and her first snake? Did she know what type of enclosure and husbandry he would need? Was she prepared to deal with hostility? Lexa answered everything. She’d done her homework, just failed to tell Indra of her intentions. Of course the breeder she’d haggled with had felt strongly about selling Gustus to her when he suspected she’d not cared for a smaller and relatively easier breed previously but Lexa always had to take on challenges most considered beyond her ability. She didn’t want a small speckled cornsnake, not a languid ball python. It was the Blood Python, deep rich reds and smattering of yellows and oranges, that drew her in. Gustus had been active the day she approached the breeds on display. When she peered in at him, he came right up to her with his beady eyes watching, neck straining toward the top until he could flick out his tongue and taste the air she was occupying. He had to be hers. Lexa decided it the moment she saw his tongue waggle out at her.

Now stretching nearly six feet with a custom constructed enclosure, Gustus keeps Lexa company in ways that people simply fail at. The young woman draws Gustus out and lets him coil around her slender frame as she pulls out his feeding tub and drops a thawed rat inside. She allows the constrictor to wander his way into the tub on his own, closing him in once he’s fully settled his girth inside. A sizeable rock slab goes on top to make certain he doesn’t push the lid off and then she turns her attention to cleaning out his substrate, removing the latest shed—all in one piece—and making certain his water dish gets fresh water after being cleaned out.

Knowing his meal will take Gustus some time to swallow down, Lexa pours another glass of scotch once her second helping runs out. The drink burns down her throat, slicing away the lingering sparks of anxiety after her outing earlier that day. She can’t say it was a dreadful time. Clarke’s company and genuine interest in music, the way she was entirely present and zeroed into their interaction; it had felt nice. Indra is the only other person with the ability to make Lexa feel more at ease in conversation. Hell, Indra had been the only person willing to look past the frail addled girl she’d become on the streets. Who knows if Clarke would have been the same had they met in entirely different and darker circumstances. Still, the rest of Lexa’s day had been a feat, trying to remain on task in the office when her mind regularly strayed to the encounter in the coffee shop.

The two of them couldn’t appear to be more contrary. No doubt the sight of the two of them seated opposite each other had been a curiosity for other patrons. Yet Lexa can’t help but wonder if they are more alike in their persons than appearances would say otherwise. More than that, the shop owner can’t help the questions that swirl around. Rarely has she ever wanted to know more about another. So much of her life has been about taking care of herself, fending off the dangers of her own mind and the past she attempts to remain two steps ahead of. There’s little room for interests in others when Lexa feels she’s not always in control of who she is. Clarke seems to make it hard not to have an interest. There’s certainly a stubbornness about the blonde. After the first conversation about the metal genre, Clarke could have walked away, done her own research, or asked others for recommendations. It’s not lost on Lexa that the burgeoning metalhead has taken a particular interest in her personally, for reasons the brunette can’t fathom. The brunette simply can’t determine if she’s appreciative of that interest or not.

A fourth shot of scotch disappears down the woman’s throat as she crouches down to peer into her snake’s feeding tub. The tail of his meal is the only thing visible between Gustus’ parted jaws. What would Clarke think of her reptilian friend?

Lexa shakes her head as she rises back to her full height. Thoughts like that mean trouble.

“Finish the thing off, Gus. Your home is freshened up and ready for you to ruin it again.”

The buzz invades her skull as she drinks a fifth glass of her chosen liquor of the night. Instead of new curious thoughts about a certain blue-eyed blonde trying to wedge her way into Lexa’s narrow world, the brunette wonders what her younger self would think if she knew what kind of person she is now. Certainly, she hadn’t thought herself becoming a functional alcoholic. Someone who smoked too many cigarettes in stolen moments. She’d once sniffed and turned her nose up at people standing on street corners with a fag between their lips. A younger Lexa had watched her mother pour wine with a sharp gaze, making certain she only had the one with dinner.

But alcohol and self-inflicted smoke inhalation are safer than what she’d once considered sensible.

The scars from too many needles nestled in her veins still taunt her in weaker moments.

Gustus slithers back into his enclosure tonight, his body distended with his rat dining. Then Lexa takes her journal out, some tape and scraps, before climbing out to the fire escape and lighting a cigarette, finishing off another pouring of scotch. Was that six or seven? The alcohol swirls all Lexa’s thoughts into a congealing mass she has no interest in untangling. This is the point where she finds relief. Just enough intoxication to keep her thoughts from eating her alive but not so far that she forgets how to stay away from a dangerous edge.

Coping with what she’s been through has never been easy for her.

The evening settles in over the city. Lights flicker on along the streets but there’s no street lamps down the alley, leaving it shrouded in shadow. Lexa takes a bite of her sandwich, washed down with scotch, and stares up through the metal bars of the fire escape as the sky sparks to life with stars. There were two years of her life where the darkness could never be penetrated by stars. The moon never saw her face. Now she takes moments like now to drink her fill of the night’s diamonds So often in her daily life, she feels like a star. Indiscernible, distant, a swirling frozen thing. Lexa, like a star, feels a sense of isolation and the inevitability of her light extinguishing. Will she fizzle out or erupt in a supernova? Become a black hole or simply fade out of existence?

Lexa finishes off a second cigarette and the rest of her alcohol before returning to the interior of her studio apartment. A fresh journal page lays partially covered in some mural of the night sky. When she grabs up the cheap bottle of scotch, the young woman opts to drink straight from the bottle rather than pour it into a glass. Her depressive thoughts need to drown in intoxication. Striding on the balls of her feet, Lexa moves to select a record, mostly at random. What she selects is the rasp of Metallica. A classic favourite she’s swift to begin playing. She drinks and sways to the music, nodding her head in time to the song’s tempo.

The thoughts recede. Her mind crowding with music and ethanol. The half-done journal page lays at the foot of her bed. Lexa sticks a few more pieces on between her drinking and mindless dancing.

There’s no certainty over when she falls asleep sprawled across her mattress. This time the bottle of liquor rests out of reach should she fall victim to her perpetual cycle of nightmares. Lexa never slips into sleep thanks to her alcohol dependency. System awash with liquor, sleep claims her with a crash. Swift and unmerciful. Her frail frame seeks out her bed without conscious thought. November’s chill forces the anemic young woman to crawl beneath her blankets in a stupor.

—

Strands of gold capture the sun’s rays and flash brightly. The ocean held captive in vibrantly expressive irises. A pink softness projects pleasure from corner to corner, a smile that begs to be witnessed. Boisterous laughter creates a the promise of the warmest embrace. Lexa feels like a moth to the flame of a shimmering woman’s shape, creating a halo of light in the center of a darkness she doesn’t wish to acknowledge.

If she can only reach it, she knows without comprehending how, she will be safe. Warm and secure. The pain will be chased away to an inescapable depth, never to be seen again. This woman and her attractive features promise something more than Lexa could even bargain for.

Hope. Deliverance. A future brightened by her presence in it. Whoever this woman is, she must reach her.

Yet her footsteps feel heavy, slow. Invisible hands, cold and calloused, grip her ankles to keep her in place. She can’t close the distance and grab hold of the radiant impression of this woman. Her heart aches to know the peace she will provide, to believe that she is worthy of such a being. But the creatures stir in the darkness, encroaching and aching to snuff the light out. They whisper her name. Speak in some unknown language of dangerous and vicious acts. They drive a chill deep within her.

Lexa tries to call out to the figure, so close yet so far from her reach. All that comes out are cockroaches and flies. Choking her as they surge forth over her frozen tongue and parted lips. They do not escape and leave her but instead crawl over her skin. Invading each inch of her. Her arms are useless at her sides no matter how she urges them to swat the insects off her.

And the corporeal form of her saviour, the woman capable of freeing her, begins to shrink. The distance grows vast between them. The darkness congealing deeper as the light retreats.

Her cheeks feel wet but she doesn’t recognise the tears for what they are. It’s blood, she thinks. She is tainted, marred by the monsters who claw at her as the light of the figure she yearns for finally vanished entirely. They aim to tear her asunder and they assure her that she’s too weak and pathetic to fight free of their torments. She is their’s for all eternity. A slave—

Lexa wakes thrashing against her sheets, drenched in cold sweat and body trembling from head to toe. A whimper sounds in her throat before she can grasp at reality. The alcohol still alive in her veins muddies her perception and the tangle of blankets around her torso and legs feel like beings still grabbing at her. Lexa screams, “No! Let me go!”

It’s her own voice that finally snaps her free of the delusion.

Chest heaving with the rush of her breath, Lexa blinks and stares into the darkness of her high ceiling. She forcibly reminds herself that she’s safe. Nothing seeks to harm her. She’s fine. Alone and secure. Free of real demons. But her body aches, muscles quivering from the tension. Body weak and heavy with the alcohol, Lexa knows she should get sleep. Yet her mind resists, fear dousing out all faith in finding restful slumber.

There’s only one choice.

The haggard woman reaches over and yanks open her bedside drawer. Her hand reaches inside and withdraws a bottle of prescription sleeping pills. One falls into the palm of her hand once the cap comes off and Lexa tosses it into her dry mouth, swallowing down the fix for her terrorised state. She will sleep and stay that way. The red lights across the room tell her she has five hours before she must be up and back to a day of business. Sleep. Lexa needs it no matter how she wishes she didn’t.

When it finally steals over her, the pill pulling her under with the support of her blood-alcohol level, it’s blessedly dream free as far as she’s aware. The success should be celebrated. But pills and liquor cannot save Lexa from an altogether different nightmare waiting to jar her from rest and steal away the safety of her routine.

xxxx

The initial crash doesn’t register. The groans of twisting metal, the cacophonous clatter of shattering glass shards pinging in every direction; wire racks careening to the ground. Lexa’s brain, swimming in liquor and the dose of a sleeping pill absorbs the sounds like the impact on jello. But the rocking tremble of her bed on the floor shakes her body hard enough to jar her out of her addled slumber.

“The hell—”

None of her alarms have gone off. The clock nearest her gleams red digits: 05:03. Too early.

The muffled sound of rising voices, the sirens that begin to echo down the road and growing closer force the woman out of her bed, stumbling blindly toward her stairs in the darkness. It’s only the fear of people and the paranoia always lurking beneath her skin that forces her to grab random clothes to layer on before heading gingerly down to her door and undoing each lock with uncoordinated fingers. By the time she’s opening the door the red and blue strobes of squad cars bounce around the walls of her apartment.

The messy mayhem Lexa steps into as she opens the employee-only door to the record store lobby would have struck her as more horrifying if she weren’t still mostly intoxicated.

Plaster dust still hangs in the air, giving the scene a hazy quality. Vinyls ejected from sleeves lay scattered under toppled racks, boxes crushed, and the smell of exhaust permeates. Half the front counter lays in a heap of smashed wood. The centrepiece of the shop lobby is now a blue SUV that gleams black in the shadow of the shop. Lexa’s gaze takes it all in, expression mute as the evening draft from the gutted hole punched into the front of the store lets in the night air. Everything feels like it unfolds in slow motion. The shock of what she’s witnessing yet to fully sink in. It feels like a disaster happening to someone else, she’s simply privy to the chaos.

The driver stands by his car door, swaying as he throws his arms out. The cop standing before him with crossed arms doesn't seem to care for his antics.

“It ain't my fault the car veered!”

The sharpness to the officer’s question suggests it’s not the first time he’s had to ask it. “Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?”

“I told you, I haven’t had a lick. It doesn’t even matter, man!”

“The smell on your breath suggests otherwise.”

“You can’t smell shit. You’re imaginin’ it!”

Another officer sweeps a flashlight over the exterior of the car, peering in the windows for any sign of contraband or evidence of drinking. The female pauses at the window looking into the right back seat and then waves to another officer near the back of the vehicle. When her colleague stands beside her, she points in and they both nod to one another before moving to stand on either side of the cop questioning the driver.

It’s not until Lexa steps further into her store and picks up a cracked record that one of the officers spots her.

“Ma’am, put that down. This is a crime scene and you can’t be here.” It’s the female officer, approaching her slowly. “Were you in the vehicle?”

Lexa blinks and waves a hand toward the ceiling. “No. I own this place. I live in the apartment above.”

The other woman’s countenance shifts immediately. Officers and their switches. “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. What is your name?”

There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to dampen the immediate flash of fear that snaps up Lexa’s spine at the question. She lets the record slip between her fingers with a sigh. There's no use in concerning herself with the crash of the damaged vinyl. “Lexa,” she answers after a moment’s hesitation.

A fourth officer appears through the hole and comes to stand with the woman as she insists, “We’ll need your full name and the documentation of ownership.”

Chewing at her bottom lip, Lexa nods and turns back toward the employee door. “My papers are in my office.”

She doesn’t look back to see if they follow. It’s their job to do so and there’s no way to escape providing the authorities with the information required. None of it stop her from feeling a twisting anxiety flood her gut. The thought of having two uniformed officers inside her office, alone; she shivers from something entirely separate from the chill of November.

In the office, Lexa moves around to her desk and pulls open a filing cabinet drawer. Her fingers tremble as she cards through the meticulously kept records but it only takes a few moments to find the copy of the business lease she signed two years ago for her shop. When she turns, both officers stand at attention before her desk. Suddenly the small space feels cramped beyond comfort. Lexa’s chest tight as she holds the papers out to them.

“My full name is Alexandra,” she intones as she reaches into the desk drawer and pulls out her wallet, passing over her ID, “Alexandra Woods.”

Both officers react as she expected they would. Wide eyes and flabbergast clinging to jaws, lips slightly parted in shock. Her face fights to remain blank but as they look between the ID and her person, Lexa’s brows furrow. Her voice taking on an edge when she adds, “I don’t want this to go into the papers with my name attached. I’m not pressing charges on the man. Take him in for drinking and driving, destruction of public property or what have you, but I’m not interested in dragging my name or this place into the public eye. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course Ms Woods.” The woman show her respect but her eyes rake over her like she’s trying to uncover signs that prove what she’s been told.

“Don’t.” Lexa feels faint, stomach threatening to release her liquor. “Call me Lexa or don’t speak.”

“You—” The male officer fumbles for words. “Jaha—”

The concussion of Lexa’s palm meeting the surface of her desk reverberates in the small space. “Don’t!” A shadow passes over the young woman’s face as she sinks into her office chair and dark curls fall over her shoulder to hide part of her expression. When she speaks again, her tone is empty. “You must be young and new. Don’t speak of the past to me. It was made clear to those involved that I want to never be spoken to about it. No one on the force is permitted, legally, to put my name out to the public. Anything that involves me will involve the utmost discretion or action will be taken against your department. And that is not something any of us want so you two will learn to keep your mouths shut. Otherwise, I will have to speak with your superiors. I’d rather not have it come to that, understood?”

“Of course.”

Lexa lets her gaze fall shut. “Go. Deal with the accident. Tell your fellow officers what my decision is. No charges pressed on my part. I will deal with the damage of my store on my own. And any further questions you might have for me, your department can call me at my business line. Take a card.”

She nods to the little plastic stand that holds business cards. She waits till they both depart before sagging back in the seat, staring at the ceiling as she forces her heart to calm down. A fine tremor still holds her captive, a feeling she experiences more from the inside. It’s as if all her organs, the muscles and tissue quiver just below the surface of her skin. The second she closes her eyes, she’s bombarded by flashes of the past: empty brown eyes glowering down at her, meager meals on plates, a cockroach scurrying free past her bound ankle. Lexa’s gaze snaps open, green eyes unfocused as she breathes deeply and forces herself to remain in the present.

Her limbs feel heavy as she pulls herself up out of the chair. There’s nothing to do about the mess her shop has become, not right now. Instead, Lexa mechanically places one foot in front of the other until she’s left her office and grips the handle to the apartment door. She’s not entirely certain how long it takes her to make it up the stairs once the locks are all done up. Only that she collapses to the floor by her bed and stares at her hands. They still tremble, ever so slightly. A sob sticks to Lexa’s throat. Between one blink and the next, her vision betrays her. The blood she’s tried to run from ghosts over her fingers, dripping to the floor. The reminder of what she’d done, what she’d been capable of once upon a time. This time Lexa doesn’t try to fight it like she had in the shower days previously. Her fingers seek out the neck of the bottle she’d been steadily drinking from earlier, tipping the liquor into her mouth with eyes shut against the sight of someone else’s blood clinging to her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope a few questions were answered and new ones are taking shape for you. Things will become clearer with time, that I can promise.
> 
> x Pierce   
> (feel free to message or follow me on tumblr: hartemyhedaleksa)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this first chapter gives you a taste of what's to come. I'm invested in this and in the fandom so there's plenty to come from me. And don't expect much fluff of any sort. I'm an angster. But hopefully you'll stick it out with me till the end.
> 
> x Pierce (if you'd like to talk, I'm hartemyhedaleksa on tumblr)


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